Rain On Me
by GoldenVine
Summary: A oneshot of Mycrofts guilt. Post Reichenbach. Be warned slightly depressive.


**A/N - Wow this is just a tad depressive. I decided to try something different with this one (considering my usual cheery, lighthearted self) I hope it works out ok but be warned it is a bit depressing. All reviews will be welcomed with open arms so please give me a few words, cyber confectionary to you all!**

**Disclaimer - Sadly, I regret to say I don't own Sherlock or the characters.**

Guilt. It's a wicked emotion. It lingers at the back of your mind. It foreshadows the fall of greatness. It causes the breakdown of the sane. It is a blackened sky hanging over the beached horizon. It hits you when you think you've forgotten. When you feel you have escaped its thorny grasp it comes back to haunt the shadows of your mind. It torments you through nightmares. It's the cause of the dark circles surrounding the weary eyes. It's the cause of the cracks that appear in the flawless alabaster mask. You think you can hide it, shake it off, drown it in its slumber but it never leaves; not completely. It needs to be let out, to be talked about. It needs to be allowed to roam the features of an emotionless man. Mycroft Holmes needs to show his guilt.

Mycroft tried to smother the guilt. He had succeeded in quashing the other trivial emotions of humankind yet he could not rid himself of that feeling in the pit of his stomach. The feeling that had made itself at home in the recesses of his mind. He could shut it out of his mind for a while and pretend not to feel it only to have it return to him in the dead of night with a vengeance on the one who hid it. He could not concentrate on his job, the paperwork that had formed a wall on his desk, the foreign secretary demanding a meeting, he just couldn't do it. He found himself no longer trying to repair the chips and cracks in his sombre mask. Every crack was a memory and every chip a regret yet he could not push them away anymore. 47 years of life crept up on him and captured his body relentlessly. He did not try to stop it, there was no use he deserved every sting of pain. After a while all that was left was the shadow of a once great man and the time honoured marks of guilt.

Mycroft couldn't deny his part in his brothers death and that's what made the guilt worse. He had practically signed Sherlock's death certificate. How could he have been so stupid? No, he wasn't stupid he had had it all planned out. He would get Moriarty before Moriarty got Sherlock. It was how the game was predicted, the outcome was fixed. Sherlock would win and Moriarty would lose. After all, Mycroft was the rule maker in these sordid games, the master of games, the hand pulling the strings. He would umpire the game and ultimately end it. However criminals don't play by the rules. There is no honour among thieves a wise man once said. The game had taken a turn for the worse and before Mycroft could intervene both players were dead. The cheat lay in a pool of crimson red having played his deceitful plan out and died an honourless death. The destined victor lay dead on the harsh ground; a hero in some eyes and a fake in others.

Mycroft was sick of playing games. His whole life was a longwinded game. A delicate balance of moves, counter attacks and rules. Mycroft Holmes did not want to play games anymore. A memory flashed through his fog filled mind. For a second a young, scrawny Sherlock stood before him.

"I don't want to play your games anymore Mycroft." A young Sherlock looked up into his brothers steely gaze defiantly.

"Life is a game Sherlock, you shall have to play it." A young looking Mycroft had countered and stormed away from his brother. It turns out Sherlock did play the game, right to the bitter end.

And so Mycroft found himself standing looking at his brothers glistening headstone just one year from that fateful event. Of course people had already visited, it was to be expected. A magnifying glass and deerstalker hat sat to the right of the headstone, no doubt some "I Believe in Sherlock Holmes" fans visiting the burial sit of their hero. Although Mycroft would never admit it, it gave some comfort to know that his brother was not simply forgotten and thrown out as yesterdays news, there were still the select few who believed in his genius and to Mycroft that was enough. A bunch of pink carnations sat resting on the headstone. Molly, undoubtedly. Carnations symbolised remembrance and truly would never forget Sherlock. A single red rose lay hidden underneath the carnations. The Women. Beside the grave was a knee indentation and on the headstone fingerprints. John. Mycroft felt the familiar pang of guilt at this realisation. John was a broken man since Sherlock's death. Mycroft had kept an eye on the lonesome doctor. John was using his cane again, going to a therapist and had all the signs of someone suffering from severe depression. _I caused that. _The thought had entered Mycroft's mind before he had time to suppress it. The guilt itched at his conscience. Devouring him slowly, savouring the taste. Drawing him into the blackened space between reality and fiction. Drowning him slowly in a pool of his own regrets. So he let it out. A single tear slid from the ice-mans eyes and left a watery trail down his wrinkled face. Then came another and another and another until Mycroft's vision became blurred and his face stung with the reality of his guilt.

Mycroft slowly took his sleek black umbrella from above his head and placed it atop his brothers grave shielding it from the unforgiving onslaught of the heavens. His brother didn't deserve this; he did.

"Rain on me" he whispered venomously to the darkening sky, " Rain on _me."_


End file.
